


Not Quite Fine (When All Is Said And Done)

by clotpolesonly



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alpha Scott McCall (Teen Wolf), Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Episode Tag, Friendship, Gen, Mind Rape, Missing Scene, Panic Attacks, Post-Berserker Scott McCall, Scott Needs A Hug, Supportive Stiles Stilinski, or the aftermath thereof
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-10
Updated: 2018-09-10
Packaged: 2019-07-10 13:26:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,420
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15950270
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/clotpolesonly/pseuds/clotpolesonly
Summary: Scotthatesthe way his body is reacting. He hates that his claws are pressing at his fingertips and his eyes are red-hot, no matter how hard he tries to fight against the shift. He hates that he can’t control his own mind—can’t focus, can’t block it all out, can’t calm the hell down when there’s nothing to even be afraid of anymore.More than anything else, he hates how easy it is for them to sense his weakness whenhe’ssupposed to be the strong one. His pack needs him.





	Not Quite Fine (When All Is Said And Done)

**Author's Note:**

> written for the "mind rape" square of my Bad Things Happen bingo card, and also just because i've seen many a lament that there are dozens of post-nogitsune Stiles fics but practically no post-berserker Scott fics. so here is one!! plus a lot of Sciles feels and a side dish of Sterek bickering because how could i ever resist ;)

The fight is over. Scott is _pretty sure_ the fight is over.

(The fight never feels over.)

Scott thinks he might’ve given some orders, but he doesn’t really remember what they were. The dust and rot of the temple is an overpowering scent, clogging up his nose even more than the scent of blood, and there are so many people around, talking and talking and talking, and he doesn’t know what he’s supposed to be doing now.

He doesn’t even know what really _happened._ He was on a date with Kira, and then they were attacked (again), and there was Kate Argent ( _again_ ), and then it was just a blur of pain and mindless rage like he’d never felt before, not even on his first full moon.

He remembers Kira’s eyes. Stiles’ familiar scent. Liam’s voice.

He remembers Peter and his fucking supervillain monologue.

He remembers a single-minded drive to _deal with him,_ to put Peter down once and for all, to protect his pack, to do what he should’ve done a long time ago. He had given Peter so many chances, hoping mostly for Derek’s sake that there was something redeemable still in him, but this was past the point of no return.

Peter went down, and it was so much easier than Scott anticipated.

His hands are shaking, which strikes him as weird because they were rock steady when he was throwing Peter around like a ragdoll. No one seems to notice, but everyone is so busy now. The Calaveras are here, swarming around the cathedral and securing the perimeter or whatever it is they do, and Araya must have let them know that Scott and his pack aren’t a threat because none of them so much as glances his way.

Scott isn’t sure where his pack is and that sets his teeth on edge. He’s supposed to be protecting them, isn’t he? He can’t do that if he doesn’t know where they are. They could be being attacked again right this minute. Peter could have woken up and gotten out of the special restraints the hunters had put on him, or Kate could have circled around and ambushed them from behind, or the hunters themselves could change their mind and turn on them, or—

Liam’s voice reaches him. It’s just a few words from far away, outside the temple, but it’s enough to break through the shuffle and murmur of the hunters all around, and Scott follows it automatically. Liam is his responsibility, after all. Scott should be making sure he’s okay after all the drama.

But Liam is fine. He and Malia and Kira are clumped together, out of the way of the busy hunters, apparently just keeping to themselves for the moment.

Kira looks over at him and for a second, all Scott can see are her eyes, wide and wet and terrified through the red haze of fury that wasn’t his, and his hands aren’t the only things shaking now.

A hand comes down on Scott’s shoulder and every instinct says _threat._

But it’s not a threat. It’s not Peter or Kate or a rogue hunter with guns drawn or any of the other bullshit dangers that have come at them all over the last two years—nothing that should make Scott’s heart go nuts in his chest or his stomach fill with ice. It’s just Derek, frowning at him.

“You okay?” Derek asks.

Scott’s tongue doesn’t want to form words. A part of his brain still feels stuck in berserker mode, blank and empty and waiting for him or anyone to tell it what to _fight._

“Fine,” he manages, and he knows the lie is so obvious to Derek of all people, but he can’t say anything else. He has a pack to look after and a prisoner to transport all the way back to Beacon Hills and a family of vicious hunters to convince that he’s not as dangerous as he is. There’s too much to do for him to be anything other than fine, and his persistent shaking won’t change that.

But Derek looks him up and down and says, “Why don’t you take a break?” like that’s a viable option.

“I need to check on Kira,” Scott finds himself saying, even though the thought of talking to Kira, of looking her in the eye after what he did to her, getting close enough to smell the residual fear on her skin, makes him sick to his stomach. “And Liam. And Stiles. Where’s Stiles?”

“Stiles is fine. He’s over there coordinating with Araya’s guy,” Derek tells him, nodding, and he’s right. Stiles is gesturing expansively at a man in camo who looks like he wants to shoot himself in the foot with his very big gun just to get away. Stiles looks like he’s in his element, like _he_ knows exactly what to do.

Not for the first time, Scott is jealous of him for that.

“ _Peter,_ ” Scott says, already looking around, trying to remember who he told to take care of him and how. He should remember something like that, shouldn’t he? That’s important, and he’s the alpha. It should be his responsibility. “I really need to check on Peter.”

“What you need,” Derek says, the hand on Scott’s shoulder tightening to keep him from walking off, “is to cool down. I will check in with the others, okay? Braeden and Araya already have Peter loaded in the truck, but I’ll double check everything to make sure. Just leave it to—”

“No, do _not_ leave it to Derek!”

Stiles’ voice is loud and startlingly close all of the sudden, but it pierces through the fog in Scott’s head like nothing else. Stiles’ scent helps too, as familiar and comforting to Scott as anything can be, and Stiles is right there, one hand on Scott’s unoccupied shoulder and one on Derek’s. He’s currently _glaring_ at Derek, but Derek just rolls his eyes.

“ _Dude,_ ” Stiles says emphatically, “you were literally dead like an hour ago. Shouldn’t you be, like, sitting down or something?”

“I’m fine.”

“ _Literally dead,_ ” Stiles repeats. “I _literally_ watched you die.”

“Well, I’m not dead anymore,” Derek says, far too flippantly for Scott’s liking. “And Scott just got kidnapped and tortured. He needs to take a break, and I can handle things in the meantime.”

Stiles makes a face. “No, _both_ of you need to take a break,” he says, “and _I_ will handle things in the meantime. You know why? Because my mom friend instincts are kicking in. And I don’t do the whole ‘mom friend’ thing, okay? It takes a _lot_ to turn me into the mom friend, but we are at that point— _way past that point,_ actually—and you two both need to, like, sit the fuck down and eat some soup or something before I lose my shit. Got it?”

“I don’t need to eat soup, Stiles. I’m fine,” Derek says, pure exasperation in his tone, and Scott’s skin is starting to crawl. The hands on both his shoulders are heavy, pressing down on him, pinning him in place, and he can feel cold stone at his back that isn’t there but _was,_ and his friends’ voices feel so much louder than they are, and it’s all too much.

Stiles and Derek look shocked when Scott yanks himself out of their grip. Derek’s nostrils flare, taking in his scent, and Stiles’ eyes narrow in that way they always do when he decides to be extra perceptive for a minute, and Scott _hates_ the way his body is reacting. He hates that his claws are pressing at his fingertips and his eyes are red-hot, no matter how hard he tries to fight against the shift. He hates that he can’t control his own mind—can’t focus, can’t block it all out, can’t calm the hell down when there’s nothing to even be afraid of anymore.

More than anything else, he hates how easy it is for them to sense his weakness when _he’s_ supposed to be the strong one.

He’s getting lightheaded. His chest is tight and everything’s spinning, and it sort of feels like he’s dying. Like he’s losing himself again. There are hands on him and he jerks away, stumbling because the world is tilting on its axis, and he distantly hears Stiles say, “Jesus, will you— You don’t manhandle people in panic attacks!”

Then Stiles is there, kneeling over him, and Scott isn’t sure how he ended up on the ground but the dusty smell of it is the same as the catacombs under the cathedral.

“Scott?” he’s saying. “Hey, Scott, buddy, come on. You gotta breathe. I don’t have your inhaler on me and kissing you would be really weird, so you’re gonna have to breathe for me.”

Scott tries to, but every breath hurts and the desert air is burning hot like flames, and for a terrifying second he’s back in a tenth grade, and he’s not even sure whose control he’s supposed to be resisting, Kate’s or Peter’s.

A light touch to his arm and the tight ache in his chest abruptly loosens; Derek’s veins are streaked black, taking the physical pain. It isn’t everything, but it makes it a bit easier to listen to Stiles’ steady voice insisting that he isn’t dying, that it’s going to pass and he’ll be okay soon.

Slowly, his breath comes back to him. The world around him stabilizes, his pulse stops pounding in his ears like racing hoofbeats, and he becomes aware of more than just himself.

He wishes he hadn’t.

The hunters that had been ignoring him before are staring now, wary and distrustful, hands on their weapons like they’re waiting for the rampage. And his pack—they’re staring too. They’re clustered nearby, like maybe they had tried to get close to him and Stiles had ordered them to stay back.

They look so worried. Kira literally almost died earlier— _he_ had almost _killed her_ earlier—and she’s worried about him, because he can’t keep his shit together when they need him to.

Shame hits Scott like a punch and he needs to get out of here. Out from under all the eyes and the judgment and the expectations he can’t meet.

No one stops him this time, but as soon as he collapses against a crumbling wall around the side of the temple, Stiles is right by his side again.

“You’re okay, Scotty,” he says. “Hey, you hear me? You’re fine.”

Scott forces himself to nod. Then he rears back and punches a hole through the wall, dust and stone chips flying.

Stiles coughs. “Whoa there,” he says. “Okay, maybe not quite fine.”

“I should be.” Scott’s voice is rough, his throat feels like sandpaper, and he doesn’t know if it’s from the gritty air or if he had been screaming earlier and didn’t realize. “I’m _fine!_ We won and everything’s good now, and I should be—”

“ _Whoa,_ ” Stiles says again, “I’m gonna go ahead and stop you right there.”

His hands come down on Scott’s shoulders again. They’re lighter this time, less demanding, and they don’t feel so much like Kate’s minions. Scott doesn’t shake them off. If he focuses on them, on the point of connection with his best friend, he can almost convince himself that he doesn’t feel like he’s flying apart at the seams.

“Scott,” Stiles says, low and firm. “There’s nothing you _should_ be. Okay? You don’t have to be hunky dory right now. How many times do I have to tell you, no matter how much of a big bad alpha you are, you’re still only human?”

But that’s not right. He _isn't_ human. If he was, none of this would ever have happened in the first place. Peter wouldn’t have any reason to attack him at all, Kate wouldn’t have picked him to take over, the hunters wouldn’t be waiting for him to slip up with a finger already on the trigger. His friends—his pack, his betas, his responsibility—wouldn’t be standing around scared, watching him fall apart instead of lead them like he’s supposed to do. That his job, and he’s _failing._

“No,” he says, shaking his head. “No, I need to check on Kira.” He tries to round the corner back to where they’d left the others behind, but Stiles slides in front of him, a hand on his chest.

“Malia is looking after Kira,” he says. “Derek is looking after Liam. And _I_ am looking after _you._ Got it?”

“But—”

“Dude, you just got mind-raped, okay?”

Scott flinches back, all his protests sputtering out as everything in him revolts against Stiles’ words. He stares at Stiles and Stiles stares back, jaw clenched stubbornly.

“I’m sorry, Scott, I’m just telling it like it is,” he says. “I know it’s kind of a buzzword, and normally I wouldn’t throw it around, but I feel pretty entitled to using it, considering I have too. You know, been...mind-raped, and all that.”

The hand on Scott’s chest suddenly feels like the only thing keeping him on his feet. His brain doesn’t want to wrap around what Stiles said, does _not_ want to take that term and apply it to himself. It doesn’t feel like it fits.

Only, it _does,_ and maybe that’s what scares him. That’s what makes him feel small and ashamed and turned inside out, like everyone can see how violated he feels written all over him. Kate took him, and held him down, and forced something inside of him, and he can’t get the feeling _out._ It’s like the berserker is still lodged in his head, or at least the memory of it is.

It’s worse, somehow, than when Peter had tried to control him as alpha, maybe just because this was a more successful attempt. And Scott had Peter’s memories, the ones from inside the Hale house fire bright and lurid in the back of his mind, and they _burned_ in a way that still gave him nightmares, but at least with those he could tell that they weren’t his. They didn’t _feel_ like him—more like a film reel implanted in his head. They were invasive and terrifying, yes, but they didn’t make him feel like some part of himself had been stolen.

Stiles’ fingertips dig into his chest, a steady, grounding pressure. He’s just looking at Scott, no trace of his usual joking manner on his face. He looks worried, still. He looks sad.

“Did you feel like this?” Scott asks. “After the nogitsune?”

Stiles’ attempt at a smile is sad too. “Scotty, I still feel like that. Honestly, I’m probably always gonna feel like that, at least a little bit. But that’s okay, you know?”

He leaves his hand where it is, keeping Scott steady, and brings the other up to grip the back of Scott’s neck. That helps too, makes him feel more stable. Stiles’ scent is a soothing counterpoint to the dust and mold and death that surrounds them, and Scott sucks in as deep a breath as he can manage. Stiles gives him a little shake to make sure that Scott meets his eye.

“Scott, it’s _okay_ that I feel that way,” he repeats, “and do you know why? Because when I freak out or have a really bad day, _you’re_ there to back me up. You and Lydia and my dad and everyone else. I don’t have to always hold it together because you guys are there to help, and I know I’m not always the best at accepting help when I need it—so, you know, do as I say, not as I do—but I like to think I’m getting better about that. Because it _does_ help, having the support of my pack.”

“But Stiles, it’s not—” There’s salt on Scott’s lips, and he’s pretty sure that means he’s crying. “It’s different with me. I’m the alpha. I’m supposed to be the strong one. My pack needs me.”

Before Stiles can even finish shaking his head, Derek is at his shoulder, arms crossed and with an almost identical sad look on his face.

“That’s not how it works, Scott,” he says. “A pack needs their alpha, sure. But an alpha needs their pack just as much. And it’s not like anyone in your pack is helpless. They can take care of themselves, and they can hold it together for a day or two until their wounded alpha gets back on his feet. Packs support each other.”

“And that includes the alpha,” Stiles puts in. “You may be the head honcho now, but you’re still _part of the pack._ And that means letting your packmates take care of _you_ once in a while.”

“I don’t know how to do that,” Scott admits. He hates this feeling—helpless, aimless, _weak._ He hates not knowing what to do next.

Stiles doesn’t have that problem. He just gives Scott another shake and says, “You start by letting me and Derek handle things for a little while.”

“Oh, am I allowed to help now?” Derek asks dryly. “I thought I was eating soup.”

Stiles looks like he is praying for patience. “Trust me, big guy, you are going to be eating _so much soup_ as soon as we get back to Beacon Hills. Once everything here is taken care of, I am going to tuck you into bed myself and you are going to have at least three naps in a row.”

“That’s just regular sleeping, Stiles.”

“Exactly, and previously dead people need sleep!”

“I’m going to go check on my psycho uncle again,” Derek says with a roll of his eyes. “At least _he’s_ not trying to coddle me.”

Even as he walks away, Stiles calls after him, “Also, I don’t know why you’re not still dead. You’re gonna have to explain that eventually, you know.”

Derek flips him off without bothering to look over his shoulder, and Scott finds himself smiling in spite of everything. Stiles catches the expression when he turns back and returns it, relief spiking in his scent. He squeezes Scott’s neck before he releases him. Scott immediately misses the steady warmth of it, but he doesn’t feel like he’ll fall over without it anymore.

“I’m gonna make sure the hunters aren’t fucking anything up,” Stiles says. “You can stay over here for a while or you can go sit with the others, but either way, you are officially relieved of your alpha duties for at least the next twelve hours. Right now, you’re just Scott, and there is nothing you need to do. Okay? The only person you need to take care of right now is yourself.”

That still doesn’t sit quite right with Scott, but he figures it probably never will, not completely. Part of him wants to take the out and stay over here, hidden away where the others can’t see him, until he feels less raw. The rest of him craves the warmth of someone beside him, the light thrum of pack bonds all around, the reassurance of knowing that everyone he cares about is safe and accounted for, the reminder of who he is and what he fights for.

He follows Stiles back around the corner. He doesn’t acknowledge the way Stiles’ face brightens to see him there, even though it replaces some of the blank numbness in his chest—the icy space the berserker’s rage had left behind in him—with warmth.

The others, sitting clumped together in the shade of the cathedral’s highest intact wall, all look up as he approaches. They smile at him, even Kira. Malia pats the ground next to her and Liam scoots over to make more room.

The numb edges retreat a bit more.

Scott sits down. No one asks him any questions or looks to him for instructions. Derek is barking orders at some hunters around the transport van, Braeden at his side with a gun held loosely in her hand making sure the men comply, and Stiles is bossing around a few more near the temple’s entrance. Chris is talking quietly with Araya nearby.

Everything is under control, and Scott can breathe.

Maybe it won’t last. Stiles said it doesn’t go away completely, this feeling, but Scott has his pack to help him, and he couldn’t ask for anything more. Even if he’s a hundred percent sure Stiles will follow through on his threat of soup and naps.

Honestly, he’s sort of looking forward to that.


End file.
